Warrior of the West (11 page)

Initially, Artor simply wished to breathe clean, empty air, free from the distractions of rule, but as he rode aimlessly, he heard gulls calling from the coast and, in his fancy, it was his name that was carried on the light, early-morning sea breeze.

A meandering path in the green carpet of grass led the High King across the fertile strip of earth that formed the transition between mountains and sea. Cowbells tinkled as unseen cattle grazed on the higher slopes, adding to the eerie translucence of the earth and the sea in the early morning light. A beach of smooth, water-bleached pebbles and pale sand marked the very edge of the land where grey wavelets, scalloped with lacy rimes of white foam, delicately tasted the beach and then crunched the gravel in their teeth.

Artor dismounted, and Coal wandered off to seek out sweet grass.

Sea, sky and wheeling gulls were painted in shades of grey that were set against a strip of viridian so green that it hurt the eyes. Behind the grass slopes, the land rose gradually until it was punctuated by more grey rock, now smoky and dark. And above these uplands were the mountains, basalt grey and black, beetling, towering and spinning in Artor’s lowland eyes until his whole vision was filled with rising fortresses of grey stone.

The sea looked cold, and Artor’s warm breath steamed in the early light, so why he should choose to strip off his clothing until he was naked was a mystery, even to him. Targo had taught the boy Artor to swim decades earlier, and now the adult enjoyed the feel of smooth pebbles under the soles of his naked feet and the scent of salt and seaweed borne to him on the light wind. His skin rose in a rash of cold, and the curls of his bright hair seemed to tighten. The cry of seabirds reminded him of the small noises that Gallia had made in the night as he explored the fields of her body. Half-erect with memory, Artor plunged into the icy sea.

You need a wife, you fool, his inner voice told him as the water struck him a hard, frigid blow, and then his pores, his capillaries and even his hair roots were flooded with a warm rush of heat as he began to swim. For a suspended, thoughtless time, he pitted his muscles against the thrust of the sea. Then, pleasantly weary from his exertions, the High King of the Britons lay on the bosom of the sea and stared at the warming sky.

Finally, chilled and hungry, he walked out of the waves, throwing his darkened mane of hair back from his eyes with a swift toss of his head.

‘Ah, lad. But you’re a dead man.’

Targo sat negligently on a good roan stallion above him, one knee hooked casually across the neck of the beast. His white hair was a nimbus of light as Artor looked up at him, into the low morning sun. He shaded his salt-stung eyes with his hand. For one brief moment, Targo looked like a man of black slate, his eyes and the old planes of his face flinty in the prevailing light.

‘Targo?’

Artor’s tunic slapped hard against his bare chest. He scarcely had time to clutch the rough woollen garment before his leather leggings were thrown at him as well.

‘You’d best hide your nakedness, boy. It’s not likely to impress me, but it might add a little something to Queen Morgause’s day.’

Artor gaped wordlessly, while Targo used a long spear to lift another garment from the sand and throw it at his bemused friend and master. Targo was dourly angry.

‘Morgause? What are you babbling about, Targo? What would Queen Morgause be doing here? It takes a week of hard riding to reach Venta Silurum from King Lot’s kingdom.’

‘Shite, boy, don’t ask me! Who cares what I think? But King Lot, his wife and a sizeable troop of cavalry and spearmen are almost at your bivouac. Pinhead saw them coming and rode like the wind to warn us of their approach. He seemed to think that another small army on our heels might make us nervous.’

‘Pelles?’

‘Yes, I’ve just said so! Damnation, boy! I’ll never get used to calling that old whoreson by the name of Pelles. To me, he’s always been Pinhead, and he’ll be that forever, regardless of his finery. He’s the very last of the Scum of Anderida still alive - besides us, that is. I’d never have believed that one-eyed thief would last half as long as he’s managed to do.’

‘Pelles is a survivor from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. But don’t change the subject, Targo.’

‘Get dressed . . . master.’ Targo’s response was laden with irony and hurt.

Wordlessly, Artor obeyed his old friend, and dressed swiftly and with economy.

Targo’s voice was sullen and his usual dry wit was wholly absent. Phlegmatically, the king quashed the questions that leapt to his lips and continued with his dressing. He could feel the vibrations of Targo’s disapproval tremble between them, but Artor pushed his personal concerns aside. As Targo was so fond of saying, ‘First things first.’

Sand and small pebbles crunched under his shod feet as he hurried up the green, shelving slope. He whistled, and Coal came instantly, ever vigilant and obedient to his master’s wishes. The horse skittered playfully as his master caught the reins. Before Artor leapt on to the back of his horse, he scooped up a handful of stones and thrust them into the leather pouch that always hung from his belt.

Targo watched this performance with mounting irritation. His king was wasting time with misplaced sentiment.

Artor leapt agilely into the saddle and engaged Targo’s mulish eyes.

‘Now, begin your news,’ Artor ordered.

Targo drew an audible, exasperated breath.

‘Pinhead has ridden hard from Deva in the north down the old Roman road. The old reprobate turns up in camp on a half-dead horse and almost too tired to ride any further, even if he wanted to. He reports that King Lot is heading in this direction with armed horsemen at his back.’

‘And my sister is with him?’

Targo grunted irritably. ‘Yes, she is.’

‘When will they arrive?’

Targo shrugged, and turned his craggy face away from his king. ‘Mithras knows.’ The old Roman paused for a few seconds before continuing, anger roughening his already gruff voice.

‘In passing, I must tell you that Odin is very cross with you. He very nearly spoke out loud and swore this morning when he awoke to find you missing from the camp. He takes his duties as the your guardian very seriously and, if you wander off again when he’s at rest, I’m certain he’ll start sleeping with only one eye closed - if he sleeps at all.’

Artor frowned with a mixture of irritation and something akin to shame. ‘I’ll speak to Odin about my bad habits, but for now, we’ll ride back to the bivouac.’

Targo swung his horse and urged it into a canter with such unnecessary force that the beast whinnied in protest and pain.

‘Targo?’ Artor shouted after the retreating back of his most loyal servant. ‘Are you angry with me on Odin’s account?’

Targo didn’t deign to reply, but sat even more stiffly on the back of his roan. His every movement screamed disapproval.

Artor kneed Coal in the ribs and set off in pursuit.

‘Spit it out, Targo! You’re angry about something.’

Targo pulled his mount to a bone-jarring halt, and swung towards his master.

‘By all the gods of Hades, Artor! Pinhead came post-haste to warn us of an important matter, and you were nowhere to be found. You gave the watch the slip as well . . .’ Targo’s voice drifted into sullen silence.

‘I wanted some time to think. It’s near impossible in camp because I’m hardly ever alone.’ Artor knew his own voice was petulant, but he was feeling a surge of resentment towards the two men who loved him best. Surely he was entitled to some time free of human company.

‘I seem to remember another servant of a High King whose feelings were ignored. But I’ll say no more on it.’ The old soldier stared fiercely at his king for a long heartbeat. Then, abruptly, he wheeled his nervous horse and rode away at a reckless gallop.

‘Who? What?’ Artor shouted after his old friend. ‘What are you talking about?’

Targo refused to turn back.

Artor sat motionless on Coal’s back as he chewed over Targo’s words.

He plundered his memory in a search for servants who had been abused by their master. Was it Frith? Cletus? No and no. Targo himself ? Gruffydd? Botha?

‘Ah, Botha!’ Artor whispered softly, remembering a tall, proud man long past his middle years who had served Uther Pendragon as the captain of the High King’s guard. Botha had loved Uther in his golden youth, and had remained true to his vows of loyalty, although his heart had been broken in the process.

Yes, Targo had been speaking of Botha.

Then, like a bolt of lightning from a storm cloud, Artor realized Targo’s meaning. He kneed Coal into a swift gallop, and caught Targo within moments.

‘I’m truly sorry, old friend.’ He spoke earnestly at Targo’s stiff back. ‘All I can say in apology is that I understand your meaning.’

Targo slowed his horse, and then halted. His bony shoulders heaved, but he refused to turn his close-cropped head.

‘I’ll apologize to Odin as well, my oldest teacher,’ Artor added. ‘I acted without thought, and I regret my lack of consideration for you. All I can say in my defence is that I sometimes forget that my responsibilities lie with others as well as myself. ’

Targo muttered something under his breath and avoided eye contact with his king.

Artor pushed Coal forward and captured the gaze of his friend. He commanded Targo to speak his thoughts.

‘Where would we be if you weren’t here to lead us, Artor?’ Targo’s arms were spread wide. ‘What would we do if one of the Saxons cut your throat while you were lazing about in the shallows? Do you believe that either Myrddion or King Lot could lead the Celts in war or in peace? Do you suppose that Llanwith or Luka could replace you? If you should die, we all fail in our quest. Who can unite the tribes but you? Would the Roman settlements follow Gawayne? No. Without you, the Saxons win. Without you, the cities of the west will burn and the churches will be razed to the ground. Blood will defile holy Glastonbury and the peaceful Villa Poppinidii will be smashed into rubble. Venta Belgarum will become a cluster of mud and thatch huts and the Roman fortifications will be destroyed. Is that what you want?’

The beauty had fled from Artor’s morning, and he began to feel like a mongrel dog.

He could readily conjure up the greying, leonine head of Botha as he had first seen the man in the hall of the High King so many years before. Botha had been straight and noble in the beauty of his honour, until Uther’s orders had turned him into a murderer. Botha had obeyed his king, but his honour had been irretrievably lost. A king has a responsibility towards those who serve under him.

Artor urged Coal closer to the roan’s side and awkwardly threw one arm round Targo’s shoulders and embraced him. Coal sidled nervously, and both men laughed awkwardly as their mounts drove them apart.

Artor dressed with scrupulous care for his noble visitors. Out of respect for the dead Gaheris, Artor donned his sable tunic, cloak and armour, enlivened only by his golden ornaments and the red dragon rampant on his cloak pin. Scorning the crown as unnecessary with kinfolk, he plaited his brow locks and bound the curling ends with golden wire. Then he thrust his pearl ring on his right thumb and a plain gold ring, faintly imprinted with the form of a clenched fist, on his left thumb. The gold ring had been a gift from Lucius, Bishop of Glastonbury many years before.

Earlier that morning, Artor had left Odin speechless by kissing his bearded cheeks and begging his pardon. The huge bodyguard had abased himself before his lord and master.

He treats me like a god, Artor thought sadly. It’s a heavy burden to carry.

Now, with his emotions in check and surrounded by his captains, including the irrepressible Pelles in all his finery, Artor awaited the arrival of King Lot and Queen Morgause.

He did not have long to wait.

Lot and Morgause halted their cavalcade beyond the Celtic bivouac, and sedately approached Artor’s camp on horseback. An honour guard of Celtic warriors clashed their weapons on their shields in the old Roman greeting. Alone, and with only a token guard of two men, the King and Queen of the Otadini drew rein before their High King.

Morgause was dressed in her usual opulence of furs and fabrics, but now every item of clothing that she wore had been dyed to the deepest black. As he gazed up at her marble face, Artor saw the resemblance to her mother Ygerne and her sister Morgan. He experienced a sudden rush of pity towards this resentful woman for the wrenching, endless loss she must have been experiencing.

Morgause had lost much during her forty-four years of life. In childhood, she had been too young to remember her noble father, Gorlois, but she had been raised to hate Uther Pendragon, her father’s usurper, with a deep and silent loathing. She had been married as a child to a middle-aged man and plucked from the soft earth of Cornwall to live beyond the Roman Wall in a land of long winters and cheerless pragmatism. She had borne many sons to King Lot, all of whom had been strong and living, but joy had rarely touched her heart. Hatred had been instilled into her during childhood, first for Uther who had treated her vilely anyway, and then, later, for Artor, her half-brother, because he became Uther’s heir. But hatred is a bitter draught, even for the strongest stomach. Perhaps she ached for laughter. Artor had no way of knowing, for she had never willingly opened her mind to him. And now the most loved child of all her brood was dead, in brutal and senseless waste, while in the service of her despised half-brother.

Her youth had fled and only a husk of her spirit remained.

As Myrddion and Llanwith assisted King Lot to dismount, Artor offered his hand to his sister. Morgan accepted his aid, and he felt the delicate bones of her fingers in his light clasp. They were as cold and as brittle as the skeletal remains of a woman long dead. Her green-grey eyes were empty and unreadable.